Poetry of a Conlanger

Thursday, March 30, 2006

My Games are Unbroken (3/29/06)

There’s more than misery to life.

Kneeling and collecting the pieces,
Sweeping them together,
Digging the odd few out of a crack in the floorboards,
I put together that old, broken puzzle;
And the full picture unfurls itself,
Vibrant and clear at last.

Move to the table to collect
Kings, queens, knaves, and fools all:
Rebuilding my house of cards,
Sheltering it from the wind
And persevering through sighs.
The ace of spades I tuck in my pocket, close to me.
I don’t want to lose it ever again.

Glance at the pick-up sticks,
Restack them and see their colors truly,
But then put them on the shelf.
I don’t need them today, or tomorrow,
Maybe not ever again.

Stand and walk to the window
And open it,
Letting the hopeful scent of spring
Into this sunny room.

And finally, finally
I smile.
My games are unbroken.

Yes, this poem is supposed to be read with Broken Games, as a reverse:

Broken Games (12/11/05)

If I had a closed box earlier,
Now I fear the puzzle pieces are spilled.
Watch me,
And feel free to laugh
As I scrabble to pick them up
Off the cold hardwood floor,
Knowing it’s a lost cause.

Watch it all,
As my card house tumbles down
And away in a tornado,
Never to be regained.
The last card to go is my ace of spades.

And last, there the pick-up sticks
Clatter to the floor,
A mockery of color.
Did they slip from my hand,
Or did I drop them?

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Glass Dancing (3/20/06)

A gentle thudding,
A softness seeping through the air,
Slowly slowly moving in tune
With the beat of desire.

It’s not a smile in your eyes,
Nor mine, I’m sure.
Just a sensual surety
That everything is where it should be,
From our intertwined hands
To the dust on the floor.

A sudden noise,
And our moment,
Like so much glass,
Is shattered with a crash and murmur of voices.
Impossible to salvage,
Let it lie and take only memories,
Tiny shards among the dust.
Leave the glass as a sparkling reminder
To draw us in again
Next time.

Friday, March 10, 2006

Heat Ripples (3/7/06)

Heat ripples linger in the doorway,
Invisible but present,
Infusing the air with warm colors:
Scarlet and pomegranate-melon and gold,
Exploding a fusion of cinnamon and passion
Into the young lives standing there.

It’s warm here, inside with you.
Outside is cold and lonely,
And I hate walking away from you.
I don’t want either of us to leave,
Not now, not ever.

Holding hands until the last second,
Delaying a goodbye kiss as long as we can,
We will linger here in this doorway,
Here with the ever-ephemeral heat ripples.